Herman Melville naturally couldn’t have known when he created Starbuck, the 30-year-old chief mate of the Pequod, a thoughtful and intellectual Quaker from Nantucket, that he was, after a fashion, helping to launch a hugely successful coffee empire that wouldn’t be copyrighted until 120 years after the publishing of “Moby-Dick“…imagine.
How’s that for a long, clause-dependent opening sentence?
Seriously: I’ve been fascinated all my life by the faded, almost monochromatic color scheme used for John Huston‘s Moby Dick (’56) and co-created by dp Oswald Morris — subdued grayish sepia tones mixed with a steely black-and-white flavoring.
This special process wasn’t created in the negative but in the release prints, and only those who caught the original run of the film in first-run theatres saw the precise intended look.
There’s a new Region B Bluray of Huston’s film being issued by Studio Canal on 11.11, which will probably look like the 2016 Twilight Time Bluray, which features restoration work by Greg Kimble. The same featurette about the color process that was on the ’16 Bluray, “A Bleached Whale — Recreating the Unique Colour of Moby Dick,” will also be on the Studio Canal version.
The video, which has a degraded, third- or fourth-generation digital texture, is a rightwing slaughter fantasy, rancid and hateful and brimming over with rage. However unfortunate, it’s yet another, fully consistent expression of the sentiments of the media-and-liberal-hating hinterland Trump faithful, a small number of whom, of course, have been behind racially-motivated shootings.
Borrowed from an actual church massacre scene from Matthew Vaughn‘s Kingsmen: The Secret Service, it shows a crudely digitized Donald Trump shooting, bashing and stabbing various news media reps as well as Hillary Clinton, former President Obama, Bernie Sanders (whose white hair is lit on fire), Sen. Mitt Romney, Morning Joe co-host Mika Brzezinski, Rosie O’Donnell and Rep. Maxine Waters.
White House press secretary Stephanie Grisham tweeted today that while President Trump has not seen the video, “based upon everything he has heard, he strongly condemns” it. An American Priority statement on its website says that “it has come to our attention that an unauthorized video was shown in a side room at #AMPFest19…the video was not approved, seen or sanctioned by the AMPFest19 organizers.”
I saw Jay Roach and Charles Randolph‘s Bombshell (Lionsgate, 12.20) at a 2 pm screening at Westwood’s Bruin theatre. I had to wait until 9 pm to tweet my reactions.
(l. to r.) Bombshell costars Nicole Kidman, Charlize Theron and Margot Robbie during or following Sunday night’s Bombshell screening at the Pacific Design Center. (Photo totally stolen from Variety website.)
My favorite all-time western gunfight, and that includes the Wild Bunch finale. And it’s not just those magic six-shooters that are capable of firing 15 or 20 rounds without reloading. It’s also that cannon-like sound when they fire. Perhaps not as roaring rumbling thundercloud as the gunshots in Shane, but in the same basic neighborhood.
Straight superficial bullshit…hold your nose and cash the paycheck…pure posturing emptiness. Kristen Stewart, Naomi Scott or Ella Balinska might be in great shape and they might have learned some cool moves from a choreographer, but when push comes to shove I don’t believe they can “take” any midsize guy (5’10” tall, 170 pounds or more) who’s in reasonably good shape. I wouldn’t be afraid if I ran into any of them in a dark alley. I don’t believe that short hardbody girls are a threat and neither do they…be honest.
I began to be friendly with the amiable Robert Forster 22 years ago, or just after I’d seen Quentin Tarantino‘s Jackie Brown. I was with People at the time, and had wrangled an interview with the 56 year-old actor because I absolutely knew (and had convinced People‘s bureau chief Jack Kelly) that Forster’s career, which had been slumping since the late ’80s, was about to take off again.
Because his low-key, straight-from-the-shoulder performance as bail bondsman Max Cherry was a perfectly assured mellow-vibe thing. Right in the pocket. It landed Forster a Best Supporting Actor nomination, and he was suddenly back in the game.
Forster worked steadily after that, and in 2011 he scored again as George Clooney‘s cranky father-in-law in The Descendants. I interviewed him right after seeing Alexander Payne‘s film at Telluride. Forster sure knew how to play pissy.
Both interviews happened at West Hollywood’s Silver Spoon cafe, which was Forster’s favorite haunt for many years. It closed on 12.31.11, and I distinctly recall Forster telling me that he was pretty broken up about this. (A seafood place, Connie and Ted’s, opened in the same spot two years later.)
And now he’s gone, dear fellow. I must have run into Forster at two or three hundred industry gatherings over the last 20-odd years. “Hey, Bob,” “Hi, Jeff,” small-talk, sound byte….”later.”
I’m very sorry that he’s left the room. Really. Only 78 — old not that old. Brain cancer.
When death comes knocking, you can hide in the cellar or duck into a closet and sometimes it’ll go away and forget about you. For a while. But if your number’s up, it’s up. Ask Warren Beatty‘s Joe Pendleton. Or Robert Redford‘s wounded cop character in that famous Twilight Zone episode, “Nothing in the Dark.”
In my book Forster made only four really good films and two pretty good ones: Medium Cool, Reflections in a Golden Eye, The Don Is Dead, Jackie Browne, The Descendants, What They Had.
If you’re part of the dwindling community of physical-media buyers, every so often a Bluray comes along with such a great-looking cover that you almost want to buy it just to pick it up and fondle the darn thing. This is one such occasion. Those glowing yellows, reds, greens and browns.
I showed Kings at my Woodland Hills screening series, “Hot-Shot Movies.” I remember an older woman raising her hand and asking somewhat peevishly “why are we watching this film?” before it even began, and I remember shrugging my shoulders and saying “well, because it captures something special…one of those once-in-a-lifetime occasions in which life on the planet earth seemed truly beautiful and fair.”
I want a rockstar Democratic candidate for President. Somebody who reminds me somewhat of Bobby Kennedy…someone exceptionally bright and eloquent with that certain hard-to-define quality of extra-ness. I’m serious about the fact that I’ll die if Joe Biden gets the nomination. Okay, I’ll survive but the blood will drain from my face. And if Elizabeth Warren wins I’ll be scared shitless that Trump might beat her. I’ll wind up chewing my nails to the bone.
From “Pete Buttigieg’s Undeniable Allure,” a Walter Shapiro piece in The New Republic: “Four months before the Iowa caucuses, it is time to reckon with the reality that Pete Buttigieg probably has a better chance to be the Democratic nominee than anyone aside from Biden and the surging Warren.
“With Sanders ailing and Kamala Harris sputtering, Buttigieg has enough money to go the distance (he has raised $44 million in the last six months) and enough polling support to guarantee his place on every debate stage. Whatever happens next, this youthful candidate with a long resume (Harvard, Rhodes Scholar, McKinsey analyst, failed statewide candidate, mayor, and intelligence officer in Afghanistan) has already emerged as the political surprise of 2019.”
HE acknowledges that Warren and “Typewriter” Joe are approvable candidates if you want to relax your standards and say “okay, yeah, sure…I’d prefer to see either of them be sworn in as President on January 20, 2021…anyone but The Beast.”
But they’re not Mick Jagger candidates, and they never will be. Only Mayor Pete fills that bill. Definitely the only magic-medicine guy out there. On top of which he’s not a woke fanatic (and that’s a huge plus).
But garden-variety homophobes and especially the African-American variety (there’s a real mental blockage against gays in the black community) don’t quite see it that way. And they don’t much care for Warren either. And so we’re still stuck with Droolin’ Joe. And that is such a drag when you consider the kind of transformative Democratic candidates who have run before.
“These are not ordinary times and this is not an ordinary election,” a certain Presidential candidate said 51 and 1/2 years ago. But what are Biden and Warren if not, in a positive sense, ordinary? As in “okay, good people, obviously better than Trump and I’ll definitely vote for one or the other but I have to be honest — neither of them quicken my pulse.”
From Frank Bruni‘s “The Agonizing Imperfection of Pete Buttigieg,” posted on 10.8: “If I dreamed up an ideal Democratic opponent for President Trump in 2020, I’d locate that candidate in the industrial Midwest. That’s where Hillary Clinton lost the last election, and it’s where the next one could very well be decided.
Last month I mentioned something I’d heard about award-season calculations inside the Netflix compound. It crossed my radar screen just before Telluride, and it came from a trusted colleague who gets around. The rumble was that Netflix was placing most of its award-season hopes upon Noah Baumbach‘s Marriage Story, which has an emotionally relatable story, a well-honed screenplay and dynamic, heartfelt performances from Adam Driver and Scarlett Johansson.
“Not that Netflix doesn’t respect or believe in Martin Scorsese‘s The Irishman,” I wrote, “but that they’re unsure how well a sprawling Lawrence of Arabia-sized gangster film will play with Academy and guild members.”
I didn’t immediately recall this observation after being floored by The Irishman last Friday. It actually didn’t hit me until today, to be honest, but I was fairly taken aback once I started thinking about it. How could anyone who’d seen Scorsese’s masterwork believe that Marriage Story, which I totally fell for during Telluride and regard as one of the best of the year so far…how could anyone conclude that Noah Baumbach‘s film had a slightly better shot at Best Picture than the Scorsese?
The thinking, I was told in late August, was that Marriage Story delivers a stronger emotional current than The Irishman, and that emotion always wins the day at the Oscars. That’s true, but the last half-hour of The Irishman delivers a current that feels like melancholy, hand-of-fate heroin, and which sinks right into your bloodstream and stirs you deep down. There’s nothing in Marriage Story, due respect, that comes close to this . It’s a very fine film, but it’s coming from a different place, and generating a different kind of vibe.
On top of which Marriage Storyain’t Kramer vs. Kramer. It’ll be respected and saluted all around, but I’m sensing that the emotional reception…well, we’ll see. Right now Driver and Johansson are in the best shape of all the senior Marriage Story contributors.
I somehow can’t accept that the great Ang Lee, a serious filmmaker and two-time Oscar-winner, has made a problematic action film. Despite, I realize, ample evidence that says I’m in denial — namely a Rotten Tomatoes rating of 41% plus an even-worse Metacritic tally of 33%. I swear to God you can feel the resignation wafting out of Paramount publicity right now, and yet Hollywood Elsewhere wants to like it…really! My soft spot for Gemini Man is a serious admiration for high-frame-rate cinematography. I didn’t attend the 10.2 Grove screening, and I can’t be at Monday’s all-media because of a conflict. My only shot is the Sunday evening premiere. I understand that Gemini Man has issues, but maybe on some level they aren’t so bad.
There are three kinds of people in this world, as defined by the words “Moulin Rouge.” The first kind are typical average Joes with disposable income who say “yeah, Moulin Rouge…the next time we go to Paris let’s pay a visit…I hear it’s a lot of fun.” The second kind are people who saw the 18 year-old Baz Luhrman musical version with Nicole Kidman and Ewan MacGregor, in part because they’d heard of the dance number scored to “Lady Marmalade.” The third kind (and there are very few of us left) say “oh, wow….John Huston’s 1952 film with Jose Ferrer as Toulouse Lautrec, which is noteworthy for Oswald Morris‘s misty, rose-tinted, somewhat subdued color cinematography!”
The Technicolor execs back in Hollywood didn’t like Huston’s idea because the colors wouldn’t be strong and vivid enough. Huston wanted the film “to look as if Lautrec had painted it,” or words to that effect. Huston and Morris collaborated on two other color experiment films — Moby Dick (’56), for which they created a grayish black-and-white color, and Reflections in a Golden Eye (’67), which they tinted with a sickly mixture of pink and gold.
